


The Hours Between Dusk And Dawn

by TheSaintRyan



Category: Hey Arnold!
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Helga Pataki is a poet, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 17:53:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17667308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSaintRyan/pseuds/TheSaintRyan
Summary: Like falling asleep. It seems like it will never come until it's here, and then what do you do with it? Brew coffee and drink it up hot enough to burn. Make your way from place to place and forget about it all.The green of his eyes, the blue of the sky, the letter coming slowly in the mail.





	The Hours Between Dusk And Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Minor warning for mention of a character death; part of this takes place after Bob Pataki dies. The entire piece is very loose and stream of conscious so there's no real description and it's not a main focus or anything.

**1.**

He left and she was still here. The green of his eyes reflected in every lake and field, in every high-rise window. He left and she stayed and she wanted nothing more than to go with him, or have him come home, or meet somewhere in the middle. But she was never good at meeting anyone halfway, and she hated the feeling of ropes so she regretted tying herself to him. The faces were all the same (but different), and the hours were all the same (but different), and the classes were all the same, but different somehow. Features growing sharper and more defined; the hours becoming sharper and less painful - like cultivating a callous - and the people around her changing and growing. Her journal filled up, page by page as she drowned herself in melancholy. Her journal grew full, the poems written and re-written and the message behind it all unwritten but clear.

Phoebe told her it was wonderful, told her to try to publish it. She wasn't going to, not ever, until she did all of a sudden. Like the longest night in history giving way to bright morning. Like falling asleep. It seems like it will never come until it's here, and then what do you do with it? Brew coffee and drink it up hot enough to burn. Make your way from place to place and forget about it all.

The green of his eyes, the blue of the sky, the letter coming slowly in the mail.

**2.**

Phoebe grinned at her, holding a copy of her book. Her name across the front in sleek and shining font, all the words inside a diagram of her heart. Congratulations, congratulations, congratulations. Thanks. Is there meaning? Is there a point to it all? Do the tears have a point, and do they need one in the first place? Sometimes a baby cries because it does not know what else to do. Sometimes sorrow is the only language. She hated the feeling of ropes and she would not tie herself to anyone else. The cover of the book was green (surprise), the colour of her dress was green (surprise), the rising sun is green through the sea glass. Surprise. She filled her nights with cigarettes, until she didn't. She filled her nights with poetry, until she didn't. The well run dry. The reasons exhausted. The candle snuffed out. Realign, center yourself; she was tired of fighting the current. Surrender, allow the waves to guide her.

Her friends around her, but nothing the right shade of green. The cake cut open, the sun a flat white disc in the sky. A boy with dark hair wrapped her in his arms, but his arms felt like ropes. His eyes looked hollow in the moonlight. Mondays and Sundays and Mondays and Sundays. Give up the ghost, chase the ghost from the attic. Invite the ghost to come lay down. Rest a while. Sleep for a year.

Ate the checks as they came in the mail. Ignored the nagging sense of haze drifting loose around her knees. She walked away from the bay, she walked away from the desert. She walked home after work and she stared at a blank page. Mondays and Sundays.

**3.**

A movie played late in an empty room. Loose bottles rolled across the floorboards. She wrote, she wrote, she lit the candle and burned it down. The memories sharp as ever, sharp as glass. The past around her knees like a pool of water. Finish another book but lock it away. What's the point? Was there ever a point? Is it even necessary?

She searched for answers and only found questions. She searched for inspiration and found it, and lost it, and found it again. She found herself and lost herself. Her reflection in the mirror strange and unfamiliar. Phoebe's smile like the sun and the moon in turns. Exhaustion in her bones. She thought about the past and wrote it down. She thought about the present and wrote it down. She can't imagine the future, but she wrote one down anyway. Two books, three books. They all got published, she ate more checks. She ate more sorrows. She stopped searching out the colour green all around her, then she started finding it again. Like it wouldn't let go. Like she couldn't let go.

Water splashed up against her thighs. Filled up the tub. Spiraled down the drain. Forgot the bottles on the kitchen floor. Forgot the bloody nose staining the white sink pink. Forgot all of the pain, but didn't toss the beauty out with it. Forgot everything but the colour green so she could learn all of it over again.

Forgot the bruise. Remembered the feeling of silk.

Filled up a journal, but kept it hidden in her drawer.

**4.**

March. Cake and candles and friends around. Twenty-two behind her, nothing to look forward to. Three more books. Lots of checks. A job at the bar downtown. Checks piling up in the bank and nothing to spend it on, no reason to spend it on anything. Left sadness behind her, but forgot to pick up anything to replace it.

All the years behind her like miles of roads she would never travel; like the halls of a school she wouldn't return to. Winding trails under her feet. The sensation of having lost herself over and over again, only to find better versions. Picked the flowers on the path, watched them wilt away in a vase. Forgot the flowers, painted the vase.

Twenty-three. Hours and hours behind her. Hours alone, hours together. She walked alone long enough that she began to appreciate the quiet, but then she remembered to hate it again. Twenty-three Marches. A box of matches burned out one by one. Burned down until the flames tickled her fingers. But what about the smoke in the air? Can you recognize the smoke of danger when your life is full of smoke? The snow on the ground flowing along in the wind like a river of smoke. A ghost up in the attic, a ghost laid alongside her in bed, a ghost run out of the house.

**5.**

The colour green a blade. The colour green a rash. She cut holes across all of her life. The empty lot where they played baseball; a hole. The street where she met him; a hole. Holes in her jeans, a burned out hole in her rug. She cut her memories into paper dolls. She walked along the sidewalk and slid on the ice. Bruised knees. Bruised ego.

Six books published. Stacks of checks in the mail; all of it thrown into savings.

Her dad's funeral was late; she had been late to be born; her dad's funeral was at dusk. She had been born just after dawn. She was alone, she wasn't lonely; she was lonely, she was surrounded by friends. Her dad was gone and her mom was gone and her sister left just after the service. Phoebe along for the ride.

A boy with dark hair left in the past. A boy with blonde hair carried along with her. The colour green bled back into her life. Rumors on the wind; he's coming back, you know? All of us always come back. Everyone left and everyone came back. Her dad didn't come back. Her mom didn't come back. But everyone else; endless looping circles like a kaleidoscope, here and there and back and forth. Missed and remembered and lost and found. Phone calls and that long feeling of waiting on a letter in the mail.

He left, she stayed, and he came back.

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, I started working on a project a few nights ago and suddenly got the inspiration for this. I just really love Helga Pataki, okay? I guess minor spoilers for the project I'm working on.


End file.
